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Writing the stories of our lives

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Our family loves stories.

Whether they come packaged in celluloid or on paper; whether via satellite or wireless transfer; whether fiction or non; we derive profound pleasure in immersing ourselves in good stories.

Through them we breach the barriers of physics and trek through time and space.

Through them we become brave, wise and worldly.

They teach us, better than a dry lecture. Aesop knew that. Jesus knew that. Shakespeare knew that. L. Frank Baum knew that. George Lucas knew that.

George Lucas? Yes. Around our house, some of our most oft-quoted aphorisms are from Star Wars (the original three movies, of course).

Try. There is no try, only do or do not. – Yoda

Luke, feel the force. – Obi Wan Kenobi

So, it is with great delight that the circularity of life granted us three grandsons who make light saber noises as they chase each other through the house. While taking on the evil Darth Vader, our four-year-old grandson said something we couldn’t quite make out, so we asked him to repeat it. It was: Luke, feel the forest.

Okay, that could work too.

Living so far out of town, our family spent a lot of time in the car; still do. I’m thankful we were in the Pleistocene age of technology when our kids were young, for driving our rural highway while cocooned in fine Corinthian vinyl, especially on star-speckled nights, cultivated the perfect atmosphere for sharing stories – our version of campfire tales.

I don’t remember as much about the stories themselves as the thankful wonder for those treasured times with our boys. Our treasured times with our grandsons take place not in a car, but at the dinner table over Friday night spaghetti. Like their father and uncle before them, they cast their eyes up in contemplation when introduced to new ideas, new characters, new places. With their imaginations in high gear, they implore, “Grandpa, tell us another Alaska bear story.”

As anyone who has ever cuddled up with a book under an afghan knows, the best stories don’t need high definition or slick covers; we have the finest high definition ever created right between our ears.

Some of the greatest stories I ever heard were not from books, but from the people in my life. I am thankful for the opportunity to have been told the stories of my grandparents’ lives right from the source. I am thankful for the times that I remember to shut my mouth and open my ears to the stories of the lives of the people I see often, the people I do not see often enough, and the people I have just met.

When we listen to the stories of others, we connect, at a magical mystical level. And in the listening, we give the greatest gift we can give another, our attention. But, we gain so much more through their personal histories: the sense of shared experience, and the knowledge that we are not alone on this journey.

One of the most powerful things stories can do is honor the memory of our loved ones who are no longer with us. So long as we continue to recount their stories to future generations, we keep them alive.

Our fourth grandson is on his way, some time in early February. And, we fully expect him to be a listener, teller and devotee of stories. We can’t wait for him to join us at the table – his own eyes wide in wonder, as his grandpa tells another Alaska bear story.

Our wish for you this holiday season is that you build your own wonderful magical stories with the people you love, stories that will live on through the ages.

With Gratitude to Those Who Look When We Look Away

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Lost between the monstrous frenzy of Halloween and the glittering commercialism of the December holidays is Thanksgiving.

And, I think I’m good with that.

With little more to hype than turkey and leaf-motif linens, Madison Avenue largely ignores Thanksgiving, which leaves the rest of us to enjoy it in the same simple spirit with which it has been celebrated for centuries.

As welcoming as the Statue of Liberty, Thanksgiving invites all to the table, regardless of whether your ancestors arrived on the Mayflower, or you just got here last week. The invitation does come with one request, however, and it is that you join with your fellow diners in gracing the table with gratitude.

For gratitude is something to be ever mindful of in a land where so many of us are so fortunate.

In this blessed place, we enjoy the freedom to speak, to worship, to pursue happiness, and to reach for our dreams amid stunning panoramic vistas.

Yes, this is a blessed place, but the blessings don’t come free.

People on a list of mostly-forgotten names that unfurls from ocean to ocean, and across mountains, plains, rivers and time have paid for them all.

They are the people who give the best of themselves without fanfare or fuss, who push past their own fears to fly into the eye of the unnerving and the calamitous against a tide of the repulsed and the panicked rushing the other way. And, they do so fully aware that the tragedies and the tragic are harsh evidence of their own vulnerabilities and the fragility of their own lives.

They are the people who find in themselves the courage to look when we look away.

They are the first responders to scenes of accidents and of crimes, to conflagrations and to natural disasters. They create order out of mayhem, with the capacity to restore calm to the trembling and the terrified.

They are the volunteers who work with the victims of human trafficking, with the poor, and with the mentally ill. They willingly tackle grim matters of need that many find uncomfortable to talk about, let alone face head-on.

They are the medical workers, who see the person before the disease, who touch without flinching, who heal when possible, and who, when called for, accompany patients on their ultimate journey to death with kindness and humanity.

They are the teachers, who approach special-needs students with understanding and patience and a belief that all children deserve the chance to be accepted and to achieve beyond their potential.

They are the volunteers at shelters and on streets, who see not dirty fingernails and ragged clothes, but wounded human beings. They understand the value of touch, even for those who the rest of us may find untouchable.

They are the eldercare workers, who do not run at the daily reminders of their own mortality in the aged faces of those they serve, but who rather view the elderly as gifts of wisdom and lessons in appreciating each day. They look at them, not by them.

They are the soldiers, who stare into the eyes of the enemy to keep them from our shores, who often die young, before they have had the chance to build their own lives like those we enjoy. They are the ones who in the name of country selflessly bequeath us our freedom.

In America, it is common for us to express our adoration for some of those whom we most greatly admire – our athletes, performers, and celebrities – through riches, awards, and ticker-tape parades.

You won’t, however, find the people on the above-mentioned list in a limo waving to cheering crowds or behind a podium clutching a golden statuette. You won’t find them living in Beverly Hills, or shopping on 5th Avenue. Their financial compensation for their labor is minimal; they clearly do not work for the money or recognition.

Recognition, however, is what they rightfully deserve, and Thanksgiving is the perfect opportunity to convey that – a quiet holiday for quiet heroes.

So, this Thanksgiving, as your blessings circle around the table from generation to generation, from family member to neighbor to friend, please remember to raise a glass in gratitude and count among your greatest blessings those who look when we look away.

You may also view this post online at The Sacramento Bee by following the link below.

http://www.sacbee.com/2012/11/21/5001237/with-gratitude-to-those-who-have.html

Happy Thanksgiving!

 

You can’t just let nature run wild

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Wally Hickel, Governor of Alaska, twice, and Secretary of the Interior under Richard Nixon once said, “You can’t just let nature run wild.”

Huh?

This is certainly not a reflection of the thinking of most Alaskans as they would be the first to tell you that their nature is particularly well versed at running wild, and stopping it is not really an option.

We have been to Alaska many times, a region of indescribable beauty, and animals with really sharp claws and really big teeth.

During our visits, there is never a question of whether someone is going to be mauled by a large beast, but when, and how many body parts will go unaccounted for afterward.

On one of our first visits, a woman decided she needed a close-up photo of Binky, the polar bear at the Anchorage Zoo, so she hopped a couple fences, unaware that the eye of the sleeping bear was trained directly on her.

The photo on the cover of the Anchorage Daily News the next day was of Binky proudly parading around his enclosure with her pink sneaker in his mouth. The woman? Last I heard she had given up photography for basket weaving.

And that was a caged animal.

But what about the un-caged ones: the moose that forage on bike paths and quiet residential streets? The ones that make you declare, “Oh, it’s so cuuuute. It looks just like Bullwinkle.” Well, it’s not. It ‘s cranky, and it will hurt you. Bad .

The wild animals in my community may not have claws that could fell you with one swipe, but they manage to be a menace anyway. Many of us have taken up the Hickel cry, may he rest in peace.

Just ask my dad. Right now he is at war with the squirrels. His body count is over twenty. No. He doesn’t kill them. He traps them and hauls them to the back lake.

He’s a kind trapper, though. He told us that when they are first caught, the squirrels put up a noisy fuss, but he finds that once he gets them in his car, if he plays soothing music, they settle right down.

Our theory is that the squirrels use GPS to find their way back to his house, so he’s actually trapping the same three over and over and over again.

My dad doesn’t go quite so easy on the woodpeckers. Maybe it’s the constant tapping or the thousand holes in his siding, but they have driven him to take a stronger tact. On one visit to his house I noticed a dead woodpecker lying on the path to his front door. When I questioned him about why he hadn’t removed it, he said, “It’s a warning to the other woodpeckers.”

Ooooh. I bet that did it.

I have learned a lot about the wild animals in my neighborhood as I have watched their numbers explode over the past thirty years. I’m an expert on scat, for instance, in the event that you ever need help identifying a pile of poop. I had to become one. (Not a pile of poop, an expert.) I had no choice. Something was leaving a mess in our waterfall every night.

After hours of intensive Internet research, I identified it as the caca of a raccoon, the badest dudes in our hood. So, I borrowed a trap, and caught, ta da, the only cute possum on the planet. I know they normally look like large rats, but Disney created this one, I swear.

As it was being hauled away to a fate of which I had no desire to know, it looked at me as if to say, “It wadn’t me, really. I’m innocent, I tell ya, innoceeeent!” (Why it talked like Jimmy Cagney, I couldn’t say.)

Turns out he was telling the truth. The poop kept coming.

You see, raccoons have their own outhouse system. Once they have staked out their latrine, and stocked it with the latest edition of National Wildlife Magazine – The Swimsuit Edition, they set up permanent residence.

But I showed him. Never mind that our waterfall no longer has water that actually falls, and that it is completely covered by ugly stone slabs. I beat the little sucker.

Ha! Ha! Ha! I showed him that he couldn’t just run wild.

And the award goes to…

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Now that the Tony’s award winners have been crowned and Queen Elizabeth’s 60th Jubilee millinery marvels have been mothballed, the busy spring fawn-over-your-favorite-celebrity season has finally exited – stage left. Another reason to dance a celebratory jig in our bare feet under a summer solstice sky.

I stopped watching award shows several years ago – yes, even the Oscars – Vera Wangy-splattered red carpet and all. It wasn’t a difficult decision – my gut made it for me. I just couldn’t take one more sycophantic tribute or disingenuous thank you. Honestly, twenty minutes in and I felt as if I had eaten my entire bag of candy on Halloween night. Icky.

America’s penchant for creating awards for the sole purpose of watching celebrities puke praises all over each other’s creepy couture gowns is a difficult tradition to wrap my head around. The spring awards shows are obviously one long publicity stunt that seems to work well. So, woo hoo for their bottom line. But, why do privileged people with great jobs need to have their egos blown up like King Henry the VIII’s quadruple chin? It’s not like they cured cancer or saved an entire village from a terrorist attack.

And speaking of good ‘ole King Henry, another thing that I used to have a difficult time understanding was the monarchy. What use were they, other than to provide material for comics, who must have prostrated themselves in humble thanksgiving when Prince Charles reconnected with Camilla.

I am reconsidering my position on the royalty, however, for having resisted the temptation to organize into an international self-promoting guild, say something like the Royal Academy of Rich White People Who Wear Funny Hats.

Imagine that organization’s annual award gala:

“For best wrist wave in an open carriage, the award goes to …”

“For best impersonation of a sincere expression while accepting posies from a street urchin, the award goes to…”

“For bagging the most birds on a grouse hunt in the Scottish highlands, the award goes to…”

The royals are most definitely to be commended for sticking to inspecting the troops and hosting dinner parties for a thousand of their closest friends.

So, where are the awards for the people who really deserve it: Parents who work two jobs, but still summon the energy for meaningful time with their children? Children who suffer from painful catastrophic illnesses, but still flash bright heart-breaking smiles? Soldiers who trudge through the unbearable desert heat and sand in constant fear of IEDs, at the will of a nation that most of the time forgets they are even out there?

Come up with an award show for them, and I’ll be right in the front row.